“I am Hassan Kacemi. This,” he says, gesturing to a man standing behind him, “is Nasire Radi. He will be our driver.”

We begin with a drive through the city, which is divided into two sections: the old town and the modern town. These sections are chiseled into their respective large hills and divided by a valley, providing sublime views in every direction. It’s September and hot, but the climate is more temperate than you’d expect, cooled by the strong breeze wafting in from the sea.

We pass through a neighborhood dotted with expensive homes, which Hassan says is called the “California” section, and then along a road winding through lushly landscaped mansions clustered on a hillside with views of the sea below; these, Hassan tells us, belong to various Moroccan and Middle Eastern dignitaries, who favor the city for their vacation homes. This includes the summer palace of the king of Morocco and the renowned seventy-four-acre summer estate of the king of Saudi Arabia. Nasire turns out to be a famous Moroccan author who owns a small literary café, and he and I talk about our projects: his latest book and my now-completed memoir, which is making the rounds of literary agents. Hassan pauses us for a brief photo op at the spot where the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea meet in the Strait of Gibraltar. This, as they say, is where Europe and Africa kiss.

We line up for the photo, and, as always on our trips, Hannah’s brought a blown-up representation of our missing friend. She’s cut out a giant photograph of Georgia’s head and torso and affixed it to a stick; in it, Georgia is grinning, holding up her hands with both middle fingers extended, her red hair whipping in the wind. It’s our last photograph taken of her before she contracted the virus, snapped on the bow of our previous ill-fated ferry ride to Morocco.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” says Mr. Kacemi, motioning to us to scoot to the right. “Little bit more. Ah yes. This is perfection.” He holds up Hannah’s cell phone, squinting as he adjusts the image. “Who is the head?”

“Our friend Georgia,” says Vani. “It’s our tradition to include any of our friends who can’t make it on our trips.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Kacemi, peering at the screen with a thoughtful expression. He snaps the photo and returns the phone to Hannah. “Perhaps she will come back with you the next time.”